


Old Hand

by ficbear



Series: Gunsel [9]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Age Difference, Anal Sex, Bar Pickups, Beating, Breaking Furniture, Dom/sub, Ex-Cons, Face Slapping, M/M, Masochism, Older Man/Younger Man, Oral Sex, Organized Crime, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-21
Updated: 2013-02-21
Packaged: 2017-12-03 04:14:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/693994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ficbear/pseuds/ficbear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I've never heard this guy's name before, but if he's been away that long then he must have been around well before my time. I mean, <em>twelve years</em> – I'd have been in middle school when he was put away. That's the kind of vintage that gets me hot and bothered. Add in the fact he's happy to deliver a smack-down if someone's asking for it, and you can consider my fate well and truly sealed tonight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Old Hand

"You know, the crowd in here used to run a lot younger." Cam gives a big sigh, and props his chin on his hand. He's about the same age as me, but to listen to him you'd think he was an old-timer.

"You want younger pickings than this, you might be better off hanging around the youth club."

"Hey, there's no need for that." He laughs, and hands me his empty glass. "It's alright for you, your range is wide enough that you'd be still be coming here if they turned the place into an old folks' home."

"Now who's being unnecessary?" I frown, but I can only hold it a moment before it cracks into a smile. "Remember who's buying your drinks tonight, before you go shooting your mouth off, eh?"

Cam just laughs as I walk off toward the bar. We've settled into a comfortable double-act routine over the last few months, since he started working at one of the boss's clubs. He teases me about my daddy issues and I rib him about his thing for teenagers, and every so often when neither of us can find what we're after, we get together and take our frustrations out on each other. His paycheques come from the same place mine do, so he's understanding about it if I get a phone call halfway through that keeps me out for the rest of the night, and if I come back bruised and exhausted it doesn't bother him. It works out pretty well, really, as long as you don't think too hard about being each others' insurance policy.

I'm just sitting down at Cam's table again when I hear a swell of incoherent shouting coming from the other end of the bar. I'm sure there's plenty of words in there, but they sound like they've been put in a shaker and tossed around for a bit before they were poured back out. I ignore the commotion at first – probably just a regular getting crotchety because it's near closing time – but then I hear the sound of a stool being pushed back suddenly, and as soon as that stool moves everyone around me stops talking. So I turn around slowly, trying to be discreet, even though that's probably a wasted effort since practically the entire bar is gawping at the scene. The guy who was sitting on that stool is probably older than me and my friend put together, and he's tall and spare and stony-faced enough that I don't know why I hadn't noticed him before. Maybe he's the type you don't notice unless he wants you to. Well, I've noticed him now, I've noticed him good and proper. And now that he's looming over the drunk guy, gripping a handful of cheap suit-jacket in his fist, I reckon everyone else in here's noticed him too.

"Quieten down," he says, and it has precisely the effect you'd expect. The drunk rears up and tries to throw off that grip, flailing his arm out like he's got a chance of landing a blow, but in about two seconds flat that arm is twisted up behind his back and his face is getting nice and cosy with the bar. "I'm trying to enjoy my drink in peace," the old guy says as he pins the drunk down, calm and even, like he's not even exerting himself. Then he leans forward and whispers his next line close to the drunk's ear, quiet enough that me and the rest of his rapt audience can't hear it, but it must have been pretty good because as soon as he releases his grip, the drunk guy does the sensible thing and swaggers off out of the bar as if he was the winner of that argument. He isn't the only one who makes himself scarce, either. Half a dozen people slowly trickle out after him, and as the couple sitting behind us get up to leave, I can hear them whispering like a pair of old gossips.

"You know who _that_ is?"

"That's Frank Slater, isn't it?"

"Twelve years inside, and the first thing he does when he gets out is start throwing his weight around."

Now, I've never heard this guy's name before, but if he's been away that long then he must have been around well before my time. I mean, _twelve years_ – I'd have been in middle school when he was put away. That's the kind of vintage that gets me hot and bothered. Add in the fact he's happy to deliver a smack-down if someone's asking for it, and you can consider my fate well and truly sealed tonight. I've got to have a go, even if it all it gets me is a brush-off. I've got to at least _try_. When I turn back around, Cam is grinning at me like he knows exactly what I'm thinking.

"Go on," he says, shooing me away. "Go and do your thing."

"With pleasure," I say, and I'm on my feet and walking toward the bar before I've even figured out how I'm going to approach this. Luckily for me, the old guy's just taken out a cigarette, and speeding up a little gets me there just in time to lean over and light it for him, before he's even got his matches out.

"Keen, aren't you?" He looks me up and down with a kind of sceptical expression, like he's not sure if that move still means what it used to.

"Proactive, I'd call it." I give him a nice, long smile with enough spice in it to answer that question loud and clear. "Another drink?"

He looks at me, just stares without saying anything, like he's deciding whether to tell me to get lost or just backhand me. That kind of stare only makes me worse. I can feel myself getting overheated just looking into those hard eyes.

"Look," I say, keeping my voice steady and low, "I thought you might like a bit of company, but if you're not interested then just say the word and I'll leave you to enjoy your evening in peace, you won't even have to put me in an arm-lock first." I pause, and flash him another of those spicy smiles for good measure. "Unless you want to."

This time I get another stare, long and hard, just long enough to get me really nervous, and then he finally shoves his glass toward me. "Same again," he says, pushing a few coins across the bar as well. "And put a record on while you're at it."

"Whatever you say," I nod, and while the bartender's serving the drinks I go across to the jukebox and pick out something nice and dusty, old enough that this guy probably knows the words by heart. I reckon I must have chosen well, because when I come back across to where Slater's sitting, he's got just the slightest smile on his face, like the tiniest bit of sunlight peaking through from behind a sky full of black cloud.

"Interesting choice," he says, giving me another one of those scrutinising looks. "This was on all the time, back when I used to come here regularly."

"Thought as much." I grin, settling down on the stool next to him. "Came out the summer I turned twelve, that did. But then I've always had a taste for old classics."

He lets that remark go, and takes a good long slug of his drink. When he looks at me again there's a lot less scepticism in his eyes and a lot more interest. "Of course, this place was different back then," he says, with a curt little laugh. "The pickups were a lot more discreet, for a start. But all that really meant was we used to waste a lot more time getting to the point."

"From what I've heard, you've had enough of your time wasted already." I drain my glass, and give him a long, hot look, loud enough that they can probably hear it across the room. "So I'll get to the point. How about you come back to my place, so I can help you make up for some of that lost time?"

He just looks at me again, and I sit there under that hard gaze wondering whether I've just blown my chance. Too direct? Not direct enough? You can never tell with these old guys. They all seem to have different rules, different protocols they expect you to follow, and chatting them up always feels like rolling the dice. But my luck must be holding tonight, because Slater gives another one of those sharp laughs, stands up, and says "Come on, then."

Once we're outside, I take the lead and let Slater follow me through the streets toward the waterfront. He doesn't talk, but then old guys like him rarely do. He just follows me, about half a step behind, with his hands in his pockets and a hard, sour look in his eyes. We turn down a dark little side-street, the kind that makes me think about whether we should forget all about going back to my place and just get down to it here and now, and once we get about halfway into the alley Slater puts his hand on my shoulder, firm enough that I think he must have the same idea. Then he spins me around and throws a punch that gets me square in the face, and I go stumbling backward onto the ground, hitting it hard with one elbow and a wrist as I fall.

"Just how stupid do you think I am?" He glowers at me, and there's none of that steadiness in his voice now, just jagged, bitter fury. "You get me nice and relaxed, and then you help yourself to whatever's in my wallet, is that the idea? Well, if it's money you're after, you're out of luck, because I've got nothing. You picked the wrong guy to try it on with, kid."

I push myself slowly up to my knees, and once I'm in position I stay there. "It's not money," I say, bringing a hand up to rub my cheek. "If it was money I wanted, I'd have chatted up one of the half dozen guys in there who were obviously swimming in the stuff, wouldn't I?" My cheekbone feels like it's on fire, and my mouth is watering like it knows it's going to get something nice and sweet if I play my cards right. So I look up at him, keeping in position as if he's told me to stay there, and I give him a faint little smirk. "It's not money, but if you want to give me another couple of belts to really convince yourself, go ahead."

He comes closer, close enough that I could reach out and touch him, close enough that I have to tip my head right back to hold eye contact. "If it's not money you're after, what is it?"

I bring my hand up to rest lightly on his belt, just brushing the leather with my palm. "A good, hard fucking," I say, rubbing my thumb along the metal of his belt buckle. "But I'd settle for your cock in my mouth."

He grabs my wrist and yanks my hand away from his belt. "Get up," he says, hauling me up to my feet again. "I'm not going to give it to you out here, what do you think I am, some kind of animal?"

 _Yeah, the same kind as I am,_ I think to myself, but I keep my mouth shut. If he wants to play at being nice and civilised, I'll go along with that, no problem. And then he gives me a shove and tells me to get a move on, and I have to bite my lip to stifle a laugh. Yeah, really civilised.

We walk the rest of the way in silence, and all the while I'm thinking about that punch he threw, the way he knocked me down like a paper doll. I'm thinking about how tight his fingers were around my wrist, the way he looked like he wanted to take me apart with his bare hands, the rage in his eyes when he thought I was scamming him. Even if he doesn't lay a hand on me for the rest of the night, those thoughts alone will keep me simmering along nicely til I'm done, no doubt about that.

When we get up to my apartment I fetch him a drink without asking, and by the time I come back from the kitchen he's taken his jacket off, and he's sitting back on the sofa, watching me with those hard eyes like he's just waiting for the flag to drop. But he wants all the trimmings, so once I've set his drink down on the coffee table, I go over and put some music on like a good host. It's another old record that I pick out this time, another relic from back when old hands like him and the boss were just getting started. And it must be a reasonably good pick, because when I come back over to the sofa, he's leaning back and throwing me a look as hot as anything I've flung at him tonight.

"You weren't kidding when you said you had a taste for old classics." He watches me taking off my jacket, and when I pause with my fingers on the top button of my shirt, he just gives me a nod. So I take my shirt off too, casual and unhurried, but when I move my hands down to my belt he leans forward, grabs hold of my wrist and pulls me onto his lap before I can get started on the buckle.

"Maybe," I say, hanging back a little before I'll let him kiss me. "Or maybe I bring enough of you old-timers back here that it's worth my while to keep a few golden oldies in stock, to make you feel at home."

He grabs a handful of my hair and pulls me down into a kiss that makes me squirm against his lap. I start unfastening his tie, unbuttoning his shirt, but it takes a lot of restraint not to slip a hand down and start pawing at myself, because if he's going to fuck me as hard and deep as he's kissing me right now, then I'm going to be raw and limping by the end of the night. I can feel his cock grinding against my thigh, hard and hot, and that's too much temptation to resist. So I pull back, trying to slide my hand down to his belt, but at first he won't let me move. He just holds me in position, keeping me there on his lap, and it's only when I say "please," low and soft and a whole lot more desperate than I intended, that he finally lets me move down to kneel between his legs.

"You're even keener now than you were in the bar," he says, picking up his drink again as I get to work on his fly. "Don't know why you boys are always in such a rush."

"It's hard to slow down when what I want's right in front of me." I bend my head and lick a long, wet trail all the way from the base of his cock to the tip. Slater lets out a long, low groan like it's the best thing that's happened to him all day, and that just makes me want it more. I keep my eyes on his as I slide my mouth down around his cock. He just leans back and drinks while he watches, casual as you like, even when my lips are down around the base of his shaft and my throat is working around him. The taste of him, the smell of his skin, the feeling of that rough thatch of hair grazing my skin on each downstroke, all of it's got me keyed up and drunk on the sensation, and he hasn't even really pushed me around yet. So when Slater puts his hand on the back of my head and starts guiding me up and down, I give a grateful little groan against his skin, and when he gets a fistful of my hair and yanks hard on it, that just makes me even louder.

"Like that," I moan as I come up for air, "like that, make me take it."

Slater chuckles, and maybe there's a bit of contempt in that laughter, but mostly he just sounds like he's enjoying my enthusiasm. He keeps his hand tight in my hair, guiding my mouth up and down slowly over the length of his cock, forcing me to take my time over it. "You loved it, back there in the alley, didn't you?"

I nod and give another little moan by way of an answer, but that's not enough for Slater. He yanks my head up and holds me in position, keeping my lips just out of reach of him. "Yeah," I say, working my hand over his cock as I talk. "And I was half hoping you wouldn't believe me, just so you'd keep whaling on me."

"You're lucky I did believe you." He pushes me down again, and now he starts to fuck my throat deep enough that I can't help pawing at myself through my jeans. "If you hadn't been so convincing, I'd have beaten you to a pulp."

The groan that particular idea pushes out of me is pathetic and desperate, and loud enough to earn another laugh from Slater. "I've known plenty of guys who liked a good beating, but never anyone as hungry for it as you," he says, yanking me up off his cock again, and this time it's not an answer he wants out of me. His palm comes down across my cheek, fast and sharp, and when I moan he does it again, only harder this time. "You can't get enough, can you?"

"Takes a lot to keep me in line," I shrug, smirking up at him, and dart my tongue out to lick at my sore lips. "Not sure if an old-timer like you can k–"

He backhands me, letting go of my hair as he does it, and the force of the blow knocks me over onto my side. I lay there on the carpet as he fastens his trousers and stands up, holding his gaze. I want him to see every bit of need and hunger he's stirred up in me.

"Get up," he says, jabbing me with the toe of his shoe, but I just stare up at him, giving him another one of those _make-me_ smiles. That seems to do the trick, because the next thing I know, Slater's hauling me up to my feet by the hair and slamming me against the wall. "When I tell you to get up, you get up, understand?" he says, pinning me there with a hand on my throat and all his bodyweight pressing against me.

"Yeah," I say, grinding up against him, letting him feel how hard he's got me. "Yeah, I understand."

"Do you?" He puts his forearm across my throat hard enough to start cutting off my air. When my hips jerk forward, Slater gives me a smile that says very clearly how much he's enjoying pushing my buttons. "You seem like the type that forgets easily."

"Maybe I need it drilling into me," I say, pushing back against him, and before I get another word out he pulls back and slams his fist into my stomach. Air rushes out of me and my legs feel like they're going to give out, but that forearm keeps me firmly in place, and all I can do is stand there and let the pain ripple out through my muscles, throbbing and pulsing in time with my heartbeat.

"I could work you over all night and you'd still be begging for it, wouldn't you?" Slater gives me another taste of that fist, right in the ribs this time, and as soon as the blow lands, he steps back and lets me fall to my knees.

"Probably," I grin up at him, wiping my mouth. "Begging for something, anyway."

"Up," he says, and he doesn't give me any choice about it this time, he just drags me up by the throat and shoves me into the middle of the room. Before I can make a move, the back of his hand comes down across my cheek again, hard and fast, and it sends me staggering backwards. I only just manage to keep myself upright, but that doesn't stop me giving him another cocky smile. If Slater's not into this for its own sake, he's doing a damn good impression of someone who is, and as he advances on me he's got a look on his face like he really does want to beat me black and blue. Maybe my enthusiasm is contagious. Or maybe he's just got a lot of pent-up aggression to release, and I'm just in the right place at the right time to get it good and hard. Either way, I want to see how far he'll go, so I smirk at him, keeping my eyes hot and defiant.

"Is that all you've g–"

The punch he throws this time catches me in the jaw and knocks me right off my feet, just like in the alley, just like I've been wanting all night. As I fall I hit the coffee table heavily enough that the cheap little thing breaks underneath me, and I sprawl there in the wreckage of it with my head spinning and my cock throbbing so hard I feel like I'm about to catch fire.

"Up on your knees," he says, and this time I find myself doing as I'm told without even meaning to. He grabs my hair, and grinds my face against his crotch, letting me feel just how much he's enjoying putting me in my place. I rub my mouth against him, open and wet against the fabric of his trousers, moaning at the thought of getting to taste his cock again. "You want it even more, now, don't you?" he taunts me, unbuttoning his fly slowly enough that I can't help but give a frustrated little groan. "Now I've got you warmed up, you'd do just about anything to suck it, wouldn't you?"

And I would, I really would, only I don't get a chance to answer, because as soon as I open my mouth Slater shoves his cock back into it. This time he fucks my throat rough and deep right from the start, keeping one hand in my hair and the other on the back of my neck, and all I can do is kneel there and take it. I thought maybe he was going to make me beg, but I guess for all his chiding me about rushing, he's not in the mood to wait any more. He's just going to take what he wants, and that's fine by me. He gives me maybe a dozen strokes, and by the time he hauls me off again my lips are swollen and throbbing and my eyes are watering as much as my mouth.

"Please," I say, as soon as my mouth is empty, "fuck me, I need it, please…"

"You really do, don't you?" He raises his hand again, and when I flinch he just laughs. "Get that ass bare and ready for me, then. Let's see how much you want it."

He stands there and watches while I strip off, and by the time I'm in position on my hands and knees, he's already picked up the lube from top of the cabinet. Half of me wants those fingers inside me, but the other half is going crazy waiting for the moment when he'll finally slide his cock into me, and that half is a whole lot louder. I watch him over my shoulder as he lubes up, following the movement of his fingers over each inch of his cock, jealous of each stroke he gives himself, because I want it to be my ass sliding down around his shaft. "Please, come on, give it to me," I beg, working my hand over my own cock as I wait. "Don't tease me, please…"

"We're way past the point of teasing, boy." Slater laughs as those long fingers slick lube across my skin. "I want you ready, but not _too_ ready."

He lines his cock up against my ass and pushes forward, and then all I can feel is the pressure of him forcing his way into me, slow and insistent and relentless. As the last few inches sink into my ass, Slater gives another one of those groans that makes me squirm, and I can't help but match it with one of my own. I'm still begging for it even when he's all the way in, still pushing back and grinding against his hips, still telling him how good his cock feels inside me and how much I need to be fucked. Then he starts moving, and I can barely get the words out any more. He fucks me slowly, squeezing and spreading the cheeks of my ass, telling me how tight and hot I am, how good my ass feels around his cock, how he's going to use that tight little muscle until he's satisfied, until he's pumping me full of come. I beg for all of it, everything he says, everything he threatens and promises me, and all the while I'm stroking myself, a whole lot faster and hungrier than the thrusts he's giving me. Between the way my body's still aching from the beating he gave me, and the way he's grinding that hard cock into me, it's not going to take long at all.

He's got me so dazed and frantic that I might as well be drunk. That thought reminds of the way Slater handled that drunk in the bar, and _that_ gets me even more wound up. I reach back with my free hand, wanting to touch him, to feel that firm muscle and coarse hair under my fingertips, but I've barely grazed his torso before Slater's got my wrist in his hand and my arm twisted up behind my back. I yelp as he shoves me down, as he pushes my face against the carpet and wrenches my arm up higher, but there's a moan hot on the heels of that yelp, and even if I can't get the words out he gets the message loud and clear. Keeping his grip tight, Slater starts to really pound my ass now, giving it to me like he doesn't care if he breaks me, like he'd happily split me in two, like he knows I'll lap up every ounce of pain he serves up. It's just right, exactly right, and I can barely hold off long enough to warn him.

"Close– I'm close–" I say, half-pleading, half-moaning. "Let me come, please…"

Slater just laughs, like it's funny that I'd bother to ask permission. "Go ahead, kid," he says, ratcheting up his pace again. "Let loose."

I don't know whether it's the order itself or just the way he's slamming into my ass harder than ever now, but all it takes is a few more strokes before I'm coming all over the cheap carpet and broken table beneath me. I can hear him groaning even over all the noise I'm making, low and rough and deep enough that I can feel it rumbling through me. He keeps me in that arm-lock and grabs hold of my hair with his free hand, yanking on it hard enough that I can't help but cry out, and if I had any suspicion he was playing rough for my benefit alone, well, that's gone out the window now. He fucks me in short, brutal thrusts that make my whole body shake, keeping his grip tight enough that I'm going to be wearing his fingerprints tomorrow. I might be spent already, but even now I'm loving every minute of it, and I'm not shy about telling him as much. I keep talking as he starts to get close, telling him how good his cock feels, how much I want his come, how much I _need_ it, and soon enough Slater's pounding me hard and growling like he wants to tear me apart. I kneel there and take it, every last thrust and every last spray of come, until he's as spent and wiped out as I am.

"So," I say, grinning over my shoulder as he pulls out of me. "How's that for a welcome-home party?"

 

* * *

 

Me and Joe are sitting in the car, waiting for the boss to come and get us, and I've just about run out of things to say that aren't going to get me a smack in the face. Which is always a nice thought, but we need to be ready to go the minute we get the order, so I'm not going to start anything. Not until later on, anyway. I bring my hand up to rub the back of my neck, and as I move, my cuff rides up enough to give Joe a good look at the bruises on my wrist. He doesn't say anything, just gives me one of those nasty smiles that make it clear how much he'd liked to have seen how I picked those up.

"Hey," I say, as casually as I can. "You ever heard the name Frank Slater?"

Joe laughs. "You've been letting some old-timer tell you stories about the good old days, haven't you?"

I sit back, rubbing my bruises with my other hand. "What would you say if I told you it was him who gave me these?"

Joe looks at me, long and hard enough to give me the shivers. "I'd say you need to tell the boss what you've just told me, once he's out of that meeting."

So I sit there waiting like a good boy, and when I finally spot the boss walking down the drive toward the car, those shivers I was getting a few minutes ago suddenly get a whole lot worse. Dropping Slater's name is going to get me into trouble, that's for sure. The only question is what kind and how much. I've got a knot of tension coiling up tighter and tighter as the boss gets back into the car, because in about a minute's time I'm going to get the answer to that question. If I'm lucky I'll get the answer good and hard.

"Hey, boss," I say, giving him the best smirk I can manage through my nerves. "You'll never guess who I met the other night."


End file.
